The Stranger and the Sand Dollar

I’ve been on a “Coronacation” in North Carolina for the last week. This isn’t to say the virus doesn’t exist here because it does, but I’ve been free of video conferences, constant anxiety, and work. Today I was supposed to travel home to cold, gray Ohio, but the remnants of Hurricane Zeta were forecasted to bring heavy rain and wind on my path of travel, most of which is through the mountains of Virginia and West Virginia, so I opted to stay—a bonus day.

 

Zeta’s rains stayed away from Sunset Beach, but her (I know Greek letters don’t have a gender) warm, tropical winds were blowing in from a southwesterly direction. High clouds obscured the sun for the most part. By noon, I had already walked two miles to the edge of the island in a stiff headwind and was enjoying the tailwind on my return. My bare feet splashed through the last minutes of the ocean’s retreat into low tide.

 

Moments earlier I noticed a man in a bright green shirt some distance behind me. He walked quickly and soon passed me in his dark blue Keen sandals. We exchanged a brief wave and a smile. (Here at the beach, it seems, we are not as afraid of each other as we are in the rest of the world.) A few steps later, I saw him bend down and pick something up out of the sand. He examined it and started walking a diagonal path back toward me. Where’s my mask? Does he have a mask? It’s ok, I reassured myself. This interaction, whatever it might be, would most likely be brief.

“Here,” he said, handing me a sand dollar. “It’s not perfect, but it’s a good one.” He smiled. “Thank you!” I replied. “I hope you have a great day.” I held this specimen in my hand with great gratitude and wonder. Never had I found one this intact, or as imperfectly perfect as this one. The stranger gave me a beautiful and simple gift on my bonus day, but he also unknowingly challenged me as I continue the hard work of loving and accepting myself.

 

My therapist and I have been working on some dialectic strategies, or holding opposites in tension. Can I change a few of the stranger’s words and apply them to my inner work: “I’m not perfect, and I’m a good one”? 

 

I can and I must. Thank you, stranger.

Tribute to An Old Girl

Earlier in the spring, I encountered an old tree on my walk around the one-mile path at a local park. I walk this trail frequently, not for its length, but for the butterflies and the life around the pond. The first time I met this tree, she spoke to me—in fact, she was quite loud, creaking and cracking despite there being no breeze at all. I thought I was hearing things, actually. And then when I realized where the noise was coming from, I thought she might fall right then and there in front of me. 

This old girl shared her wisdom with me in Coronatime. Throughout her years at the edge of this meadow, she had witnessed many changes around her and stood tall. She had been in storms. She had witnessed the change in the land. She offered shelter to all kinds of living things. She reminded me that this time we are in is just a moment in time. And she said other things that cannot be translated to written language. On that day and for weeks after, she vocalized something of her life to me in a language that spoke right to my heart. Trees are known to carry electric currents, just like those that keep the human heart beating. I have hugged a couple of trees during Coronatime, simply to feel a living thing against my skin.

Today I returned to the park after about a four-week hiatus. When I came to the fork in the trail that offers a bypass through a wooded area, I was stunned to see a "Trail Closed" sign leading to my tree, which is on the meadow side of the fork. My old creaky friend had fallen quite dramatically sometime during my absence. She snapped from the bottom of her thick trunk, and her branches now cover the trail. Though the path was closed, I defied the order. What had happened to her? Was it a storm? Or was she simply tired? I photographed her and touched her. I'm embarrassed to say that I don't even know what kind of tree she is. As I walked away, I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. What doesn't make me cry these days? Now I can add fallen trees to that list. 

A few times in my life, those who were dying entered my consciousness, briefly and lovingly. This is something I cannot explain to others readily or with rationality. As I walked today away from the tree and into the meadow and around the pond, I wondered if perhaps the tree spoke to me in the same ways friends have come to me in their crossing over. I'm sure others heard the sounds she made. Some probably passed her by without thinking much of it, but perhaps there were others on the trail like me who knew the dirge she sang.

Who knows what will become of her now. How much will be cut and hauled away? How much can safely be left behind for her to begin a new phase in her existence? Dead trees continue to provide life, nourishment, and safe havens for many organisms. Even in death, she gives. I shall always remember her and how she was there for me as I felt like I was breaking apart on the inside trying to make sense of it all.